


salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death

by joanofarcstan



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (that's the second round), Light Dom/sub, M/M, Marriage, Not Compliant With Laws and Customs Among the Eldar, Tender Sex, Wall Sex, ubiquitous imagery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-06
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-12 12:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,271
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29884578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joanofarcstan/pseuds/joanofarcstan
Summary: 'Earlier I spoke in anger,' he tells Edrahil, for he must make him understand that there is no time for them there. Findaráto has been both lover and king, and he will not now become the monster of their story, too. 'The world now knows only salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death—''And you will not face it alone.' Again and always Edrahil speaks as if the truth must be so simple. One hand holds Findaráto's to his chest; the other strokes down his naked back. 'Do not forget that I have bandaged your wounds, held you as you wept, and sworn to you unconditional loyalty. That is dangerous, yes, but are you not worthy?'Findaráto trembles.The king and his captain, the sorcerer and his soldier, the doomed and his lover. For what does fate love better than a tale of star-crossed lovers who choose death together over life apart?
Relationships: Edrahil/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 9
Kudos: 16





	salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death

**Author's Note:**

> 0\. god got me ao3 account so i could make you all look at my hyperfixations. or, if you prefer, i bit god's hands when god tried to pick me up and snatched this account from god's hat. it is still entirely god's fault that i have opposable thumbs and the capacity for reason—and thus, the capacity to abuse it.

Findaráto has spoken of fate and moths flown to flames, but watching his own doom unfold in his hands is still something else.

'An oath I have sworn,' he tells Edrahil in the dim light of his bedchamber, though it is more _theirs_ than _his_ after all these years, 'and must fulfill it.'

He does not know what he expects: anger, denial, some attempt at diplomacy—for Edrahil is far more skilled in diplomacy than he would have others, even Findaráto, believe—but it does not change that he must go, whether any of them will it or not. This is beyond his choice now; all that remains is to say his farewells and see if he will go alone.

(He hopes he will not, and he hopes he will. He is a king of contradictions, but in the end it is fate who makes kings, and not the other way around.)

Edrahil only tips his chin up with gentle, callused fingers and presses their lips together, soft, sweet, lingering. 'That is for tomorrow,' he says simply, thumbing open the collar of Findaráto’s shirt, leaning down for another kiss. Upon its breaking, he moves to push the fabric away, and as his eyes travel over the bared curves of neck and shoulder, sloping gently in the candlelight, Findaráto blushes. He knows he is fair to look upon, but still Edrahil makes him feel as a youth in love for the first time.

The firelight casts sharp shadows over Edrahil's expression; the dimness softens the edges. If Findaráto looks to the walls, he sees only two figures standing in the centre of the room, entwined in each other's arms; at the brush of lips over his pulse point, his head tips back, and he feels Edrahil, satisfied that he has Findaráto where he wants him, let his hands slip down Findaráto's body to rest at his waist, and there they stay for a long moment.

Intimacy, captured by stone and flickering flame. Tableaux do not end; they do not fall. They swear no oaths; they march to no battle and drink from no chalice of fate’s hand. To them the gentle tolling of the bells of time is but decoration, the salt and crimson threads of fate but an autumn raiment.

Findaráto and Edrahil are a tableau of two lights in the dark, two souls brushing hands in a mortal moment immortalized, and so long as they remain, pressed to each other in this dim light, Findaráto can pretend that they have eternity.

  


* * *

  


_An oath I too shall swear, and must be free to fulfill it, and go into darkness._

(Alone.)

And so, at the close of his time with his city (and at least now he knows that he shall not be the one to build the bridge that mocks him in his dreams), Findaráto returns to his quarters.

With Edrahil, of course, always—or at the very least, one last time.

Yet as soon as they are within Findaráto’s chambers with the door shut behind them, Findaráto feels the air go out of him in a single breath as he is pinned against the wall, trapped between Edrahil’s body and the unyielding stone.

‘Edrahil,’ he gasps—and _oh_ , Edrahil has lifted him ever-so-slightly off the ground, and there is something heady about this ease with which his lover manhandles him.

‘You are foolish, and loyal, too loyal,’ growls Edrahil, though they both know there is nothing to be done for it. Come morning Findaráto will forsake the city wrought by his hands for the doom wrought by his heart, and Edrahil— _oh, Edrahil…_

Findaráto is powerless against the thread of fortune and death, and the salt crystals and crimson teardrops that line it. This thread is partly of his own spinning, and he will not now weave Edrahil's fate into his own. But he wants, he longs, he yearns in only the way the forsaken and the doomed can yearn to be known, to be loved and carried; and with the stifled cry of a thousand years of secrets and confessions kept behind his teeth, Findaráto prays that Edrahil will turn away from him as he leaves his gates ( _farewell, and for ever_ ), but still his heart, that despicable creature of passion and selfishness, begs Edrahil not to let him go to his death alone with only a memory of love to sustain him, and _how he hates that he yearns—_

‘Stop thinking.’ Edrahil’s grip has not slackened in the slightest, remains iron-tight even as he claims Findaráto‘s mouth in a hard, bruising kiss, and Findaráto sighs and lets Edrahil press him into the stone. He laughs shakily, cuts himself off with a sharp gasp when Edrahil's teeth dig into the soft, vulnerable flesh at his pulse.

'Forgive me,' he breathes, as much at Edrahil’s mercy as if he were on his knees. He feels Edrahil smile against his hot skin, moans as Edrahil soothes the bite with his tongue.

‘There's nothing to forgive.’ As he has always done, Edrahil speaks simply, as if everything he says must be as true and unchanging as the sunrise every morning.

(Sunrise—and sunset, Findaráto thinks, with the dawn and dusk of war and friendship and love. Their souls are immortal, but their works are not. They have all the time and no time at all; forever and never mean the same to them, and eternity fits into a single fleeting moment as their hands reach for each other and their lips brush once more, threads of amber and gold twining in the night.)

Surely he and Edrahil must be in the twilight of their romance now, and how he regrets that it must end this way, with the choice between desertion and death—

‘You are thinking again.’ Edrahil’s voice carries no reprimand, but still Findaráto sighs, though the apology on the tip of his tongue is forestalled by Edrahil's hands, pushing the heavy robes of state off his shoulders and reaching for the ties of his shirt at his collarbone. Findaráto moves to help, but Edrahil catches his hands—gently, always gently, yet it is still clear that Findaráto will go where Edrahil desires and do as Edrahil tells him—kisses them, and returns them to their places by his sides. One breath more and Edrahil's fingers play over his collarbone, making him shiver, then trail back down to his hands, lifting one so Edrahil can press his mouth to the tender inside of Findaráto‘s wrist.

The shirt is gone, tossed carelessly to the side—after all, what use will Findaráto have for silks and finery after this night?—and then Edrahil’s clever fingers are working the laces of his leggings, and he is barefoot, though he does not remember taking his boots off. Another breath for Edrahil to step back and admire, just long enough for Findaráto to realize that Edrahil is still dressed and blush. From the faint, fond smirk sparking at the corner of Edrahil’s mouth, that was his intent, and so Findaráto lets his lips part and his body arch, inviting Edrahil to join the dance.

Oh, there is no need, for Edrahil knows the dance as well as Findaráto himself does, but still they call and respond, and Findaráto moans softly as Edrahil presses him once more into the stone and claims him with a kiss.

‘I could think of many better uses for your mouth than that debate,’ Edrahil murmurs, a hint of teeth scraping against Findaráto’s collarbone, a smile against his skin when he gasps, ‘lovely though your voice is to hear.’

‘If you think my talents were wasted—’ _Valar_ , he already sounds wrecked, his voice hitching and breathy, a whine high in the back of his throat as Edrahil rolls his hips once, traces his tongue over the mark at his throat twice ‘—then I am at your service.’

 _Kingship is service,_ he remembers saying, many, many years ago, though this was perhaps not how it was intended.

‘So eager, so pretty,’ Edrahil purrs, and Findaráto is gratified to hear the slight rasp in his voice, the catch in his breath as he promises, ‘and mine alone.’

And before Findaráto can even voice the _yours, yes, only yours_ on the tip of his tongue, a strong pair of hands grasps his hips, fingers pressing into the jut of bone there, and flips him so that he faces the wall, hands braced on it. The sound of a vial being uncapped reaches his ears, and he shivers in anticipation, letting his forehead rest against the cool stone as one of Edrahil's hands holds him at the waist, while the other presses a slick finger into him.

Edrahil's mouth ghosts hot and wet over his shoulder, sucking here, letting teeth dig in there, and Findaráto moans, begging wordlessly for more, for he knows that he bruises easily, and the thought of bearing Edrahil's marks on his skin—red and indigo blooming on the creamy canvas—makes a bolt of heat go through him, his breath coming short and needy.

A soft laugh puffs against his neck. 'Fortunate that I am impatient tonight.' Findaráto feels Edrahil's smile, teeth and tongue, as he adds another finger, curls them _just_ right with practiced ease, and Findaráto gives a strangled cry. 'Otherwise, I might like to remind myself of how beautiful you are when you come undone, _slowly_ ,' and those are the words that make Findaráto push his hips back and lean into the wall, seeking comfort from the one and strength from the other.

'Edrahil,' he pleads, voice cracking as Edrahil's fingers sink back into him, so good but not nearly enough, and hopes that he sounds wrecked enough to spur his lover on. 'Please.'

Edrahil hums, drags over that spot deep inside him that makes his knees buckle, that would have made him fall were it not for Edrahil's other hand, firm at his hip. Again and again Edrahil torments him, striking hard on the thrust in and caressing gently on the drawing out, until Findaráto is a trembling, whimpering mess.

'Edrahil,' he repeats, rests his forehead on the stone. Sweat dampens his hair; tears fill his eyes. Edrahil's mouth trails heat and desire over the juncture of shoulder and neck again, tastes the salt on his skin; Findaráto tips his head to the side to bare his throat. With Edrahil's tongue pressing into his pulse point, deepening the bruise there, Findaráto's voice cracks. 'Not going to break. _Please_.'

If Findaráto is to die for love, then he wants at least to know it. He is in no position to dictate terms, but he thinks that he can endure anything if only his last memory of touch is Edrahil, if only Edrahil's alone are the marks on his skin, if only he knows he belongs to none other than Edrahil.

(It will not happen—his last memory will be copper and ice and darkness—but in Edrahil's arms he can dream.)

Now Edrahil draws away, a flurry of rustling fabric, and Findaráto wants to look over his shoulder and watch his lover disrobe, wants to drink in the sight of smooth skin and whipcord muscles too long hidden beneath plain linen, but Edrahil has not told him to look. And so he breathes through the whine that rises in the back of his throat, tense as a bowstring drawn all the way back, and awaits his captain's mercy.

'Good,' Edrahil murmurs, breath ghosting over the sensitive shell of his ear, and then he is being turned back around to face his lover, and Edrahil’s hands are slipping beneath his thighs and lifting him up against the wall like he weighs nothing, and Findaráto finally, _finally_ sinks down onto his lover with a moan.

Locking his ankles around Edrahil's waist, he draws him closer, takes him deeper, a ragged cry that trails off into a near-sob tearing itself from his throat. 'Edrahil,' he gasps into his lover's neck when he is filled to the brim, fingers scrabbling at his shoulders.

'So good,' Edrahil growls, hefting him up again and letting him slam back down onto his cock, and Findaráto knows that he will bear bruises in the shape of Edrahil's fingerprints on his hips the next day.

(And, with any grace, unto the very end.)

‘Fuck me,’ Findaráto implores, and chokes on his next words when Edrahil grips his leg, throws it over his shoulder with little care for gentleness. This is the roughness he craves, the passion that turns a fingertip into a naked flame, and a lover into a conqueror—it is custom for kings to burn. Edrahil’s next thrust pounds directly into that secret spot that sparks and shatters light behind Findaráto’s eyes, and Findaráto buries his face in the crook of Edrahil’s neck, bites into the meat of Edrahil’s shoulder as a cry forces its way past his teeth and breaks against newly-marked skin.

Edrahil fucks him hard and fast and ruthless, branding him with nails and teeth and tongue as his, for now and for ever, and Findaráto sobs then in truth; even as he curls around Edrahil’s body, hands twisting in his hair, Edrahil picks up the pace, drives into him until he slams back into the wall with every thrust, leaving him breathless and dizzy and shaking, clenching desperately around Edrahil’s cock. Vaguely, he recalls saying, _I’m not going to break at some time earlier,_ but now the world is reduced to Edrahil’s mouth at his throat, Edrahil’s cock buried to the hilt inside him, and the force of every thrust jars the very breath from him, and he thinks that perhaps it is not so bad to—

‘ _Break,_ ’ Edrahil commands, a world of love and trust and need compressed into a single word. ‘For me.’

 _For you, only you, always you,_ Findaráto swears, teeth pressed to Edrahil’s collarbone in a muffled, broken wail, and obeys. Distantly he registers heat and moans softly as Edrahil spills inside him, clings desperately to his lover as Edrahil backs away from the wall towards the bed until his knees hit the edge and he can lie them down together.

Trembling in Edrahil’s embrace, tiny shudders running through his spent body every time Edrahil shifts, still within him, Findaráto lets his head to rest on Edrahil’s chest, loses himself in the steady heartbeat echoing in his ear and the gentle hand stroking his hair, passing over his back and shoulders. Everything is muted now, even Edrahil’s voice, whispering soft words of praise and devotion that Findaráto wishes he could reciprocate; it is as if there exists a layer between himself and the world, comfortingly blurred and touched by light.

The most he can do is turn his head a little and press his lips to the marks of passion at Edrahil’s collarbone, and hope that Edrahil knows that he means to say, _I love you_.

  


* * *

  


'We should prepare to depart,' says Edrahil, but his hand does not stop its lazy path in Findaráto's hair. They lie in candlelight, for neither of them has thought rising to light the lamps worth the effort, and in any case Findaráto would not permit Edrahil to leave, however briefly. In the corner of his eye he sees the mingling of their hair, gold on black as he imagines Helcar must have shone against the night upon its first lighting.

That was long before Findaráto was born, before the first Elves even awoke; that was a time when the world was young and knew only seven things: water, song, silver, fire and glass, night, and the length of an hour. Then the world was an idyll, as much as it was a hope, a mirror unshattered, a hymn-book unmarred.

Then there was no knowledge of the things that now rule their lives: salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death.

They can never return, much less to a time that they never knew, but Findaráto thinks that this is the closest he can get.

'We?' he returns softly, fingertips playing on Edrahil's collarbone.

'You do not really think I will let you go alone.'

'I think that if you have any sense, you will send me alone.'

Edrahil kisses the top of his head, whispers with his lips still pressed to Findaráto's hair, 'Then it is fortunate that my love is stronger than my wisdom.' His hand finds Findaráto's, laces their fingers together.

A tapestry unstained, a memory that is not Findaráto's but that he cherishes just as well.

'Earlier I spoke in anger,' he tells Edrahil, for he must make him understand that there is no time for them there. Findaráto has been both lover and king, and he will not now become the monster of their story, too. 'The world now knows only grief, blood, and death—' _salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death—_

'And you will not face it alone.' Again and always Edrahil speaks as if the truth must be so simple. One hand holds Findaráto's to his chest; the other strokes down his naked back. 'Do not forget that I have bandaged your wounds, held you as you wept, and sworn to you unconditional loyalty. That is dangerous, yes, but are you not worthy?'

Findaráto trembles.

'Your oaths are my oaths, your fate my fate. I will follow you, my king and my lover, to whatever end.' These words, the ones that Edrahil says like the very fact of the sunrise and sunset every day, will be the ones to break him, Findaráto is certain, well and truly at the heart of his soul.

(It is worth it.)

'Marry me,' Findaráto says suddenly, fiercely. Once upon a time they would have had forever, but here they have either the length of an hour, or nothing at all.

A look of gentle wonder crosses Edrahil's expression, and Findaráto need not fear what he has just said (and what he has not). Raising their joined hands to his lips, Edrahil brushes his lips over Findaráto's knuckles, his mouth curving into a soft smile. He tugs Findaráto up to meet him, presses butterfly kisses to his forehead, his nose and cheeks, over both eyelids, and finally to his lips. 'I think the world also knows love,' he murmurs, and Findaráto seizes him in a long, deep kiss.

The world knows five things: salt, crimson, the thread of fortune and death, and loyalty and love. And though love must in the end be subordinated to the first three, it does not feel that way as they take their vows to one another. They exchange no rings, stand in no ceremony, swear before no witnesses, but they sit facing each other on the bed, holding each other's hands, candlelight casting shadows of an ancient dance on their bodies, and it is enough.

'In the name of Eru, the Holy, the One, I take thee as husband, till the world be remade,' intones Findaráto, looking into Edrahil's sparkling eyes and feeling tears well up in his own to match when Edrahil repeats the words.

'I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine,' whispers Edrahil, kissing Findaráto's hands again as he echoes the promise, his voice breaking. 'Mayst thou feel no rain, for I am thy shelter; mayst thou feel no cold, for I am thy warmth.'

'Mayst thou feel no sorrow, for I am thy comfort; mayst thou feel no hurt, for I am thy shield.' Regret touches his words then, gives them a soft ringing sound like that of a tear falling into the ocean. In Edrahil's eyes he sees his rueful smile mirrored, for there will come to them rain and cold, and sorrow and death. The world has known twelve things in all, but it loves best salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death, and all the others must bend to them.

But for now, there is no sorrow, no grief as Findaráto lets Edrahil lay him down on the bed, lets his legs fall apart, feels his breath hitch as Edrahil's talented mouth sucks a mark into the inside of one trembling thigh, moans as Edrahil sinks two fingers into him where he is still slick and open from earlier.

Edrahil withdraws, slicks himself with the oil and tosses the bottle aside for them to find later, and then he is crawling up to blanket Findaráto's body with his own, cupping Findaráto's face with his other hand. A brief, sweet kiss to his lips, and Edrahil asks him, 'Ready?'

'I love you,' says Findaráto, with a soft, silly little smile reserved for Edrahil alone, and then Edrahil arranges himself between Findaráto's legs and presses into him, infinitely slow, rocks into his willing body, infinitely tender, holds him, infinitely close; and Findaráto cries out—shielded, comforted, loved.

As he reaches out to cradle Edrahil's face in his hands, he feels his spirit reach out, too, seeking its promised, and he hears Edrahil's breath catch, and he presses his forehead to Findaráto's, and then it is all light and only light; Findaráto is drowning in a sea of warmth and touch, both physical and not. The first fine threads of their bond—the symbol of their shared fate, come salt and crimson, fortune and death—gleam gentle, blinding gold, as honey dripping from the back of a spoon, as the sun and Laurelin and Helcar have shone in their turns.

The tears that slip from Findaráto's eyes are not glass, but crystal. One thousand glimmers of colour; one thousand tiny melodies weaving their way through this tapestry in perfect harmony. Findaráto has never heard the Music in full, nor has he known it before the Marring, but he cannot imagine anything more perfect than this. It is as if, for a fleeting, eternal moment, that the world is young again and knows only seven things: water, song, silver, fire and glass, night, and the length of an hour.

Not even. The world is _new,_ and it knows only one thing: love.

'My Findaráto,' Edrahil says, though whether with voice or spirit Findaráto cannot tell. 'My love, my husband, my own,' and Findaráto is lost, irrevocably conquered and cherished, cradled and claimed.

 _Yours, forever and always,_ he pledges, the outline of Edrahil’s expression oddly blurry above him. He feels Edrahil moving within him, slow and tender and exquisite, familiar and shattering all at once, but it is secondary to pure light that engulfs him, bears him upon its wings through a sky of promise. Heat coils low in his stomach, and he knows that he is close—Edrahil rocks against that place deep inside him, and he sobs—but he is not desperate as he was earlier, all teeth and bruises and fierce desire.

This time, their union comforts him.

He holds Edrahil impossibly close as they approach their climax together, arms wrapped around him and face hidden in the crook of his neck, their entwined bodies flame-hot as summer salt and sand. At last, with Edrahil buried to the hilt inside him, Findaráto hears his lover’s breath and feels him tense, and the flood of heat deep within him drags a filthy moan from his lips, shatters him even as the golden threads bind the two of them tighter, leaves him shaking and spent in Edrahil’s embrace.

Still the endless light blankets him; still the world is new and knows only one thing: love.

‘Shh,’ Edrahil soothes, encouraging Findaráto to curl into his body, even as Findaráto’s are the hands that stroke his hair. ‘ _Arimeldanya, vanimeldanya,_ my Findaráto, I have you.’

‘I love you,’ whispers Findaráto, and wraps himself around his husband.

‘And I you.’ Without having to look up, Findaráto knows the sparkle that graces Edrahil’s soft smile.

The newborn threads multiply, weaving into each other until the bond is a thick, shimmering rope between them, a braid of pure, molten light interwoven with lines of gleaming gold and green. They are wed in the night, here in this sanctuary of candlelight and shadow and touch, till a power greater than death or fortune sunder them.

That, at least, is comforting. Findaráto thought earlier that they must be in the twilight of their romance, watching the sun set on centuries of companionship, but now theirs is the same thread that binds them across life and death and water and song and the endless hours until the world be broken and remade. They share a single thread of fortune and death, two people set on the same path of salt and crimson—and love.

  


* * *

  


It is not so comforting when they lie in chains of ice and darkness in the tower that Findaráto once ruled himself, unable to touch or speak or even open the bond, lest Gorthaur discover that they are wed. Then it feels as though the promises they made were false, their crumbling kingdom built on pillars of sand while their prison rises from stone.

Their promises lie like broken glass roses in Findaráto's hands, stinging, bleeding.

They were not supposed to die alone. They were supposed to share a fate.

And in some way they do, at the cruel mercy of claws and teeth and a fateful oath, but when at the very end he lies ruined in body and in spirit, choking on the burning shards of his own promises, Findaráto's last thought is how terribly _alone_ Edrahil must have been—how alone they all are, when at last love is subordinated to the three things the world loves best: salt, crimson, and the thread of fortune and death.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. the line "when the world was young and knew only seven things: water, song, silver, fire and glass, night, and the length of an hour" and any derivatives are adapted from _deathless_ by catherynne valente, which i have not yet read in full but which makes me Feel Things.  
> 2\. i couldn't let them have a happy ending, could i???  
> 3\. comments and kudos make me a very happy burrito! i'm on tumblr @[fingolfino](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/view/fingolfino); [here](https://fingolfino.tumblr.com/post/644937651174211584/salt-crimson-and-the-thread-of-fortune-and-death) is a rebloggable version of this work!


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